F*ck me, it’s Thursday.

Alternate title: Spaniards Spaniards everywhere and not a moment to shag.

*Pauses for a moment, lights a ciggie and eyes “client wine” stocks longingly.*

There are times, my darlings, when my work is a real source of pleasure for me. When my morning stroll through the streets of London carries with it the sweet anticipation of raising the window gate on the business I’ve built; a sensation that never fails to delight as I gaze lovingly through our bay window on a creative space slowly waking in the growing sunlight. There are times when making that first cup of tea, switching on the music in the design studio and taking that first phone call gives me the same thrill as the very first morning I did it. My business. My space. It’s beautiful.

Then there are other days.

Days when the bloody ancient gate sticks and you have to use your favourite fountain pen to pry the stupid shagging lock thingy loose, when Starbucks has run out of chai and the horny Italian from the coffee shop next door takes you for someone who responds well to lip licking, and when your lingerie closet is actually gathering dust (I know, right?) when you realise that - despite recent good fortune in the areas of travel and, well, orgasms – this pesky need to “pay bills” and “contribute to society” is really beginning to cramp your social style.

This. Has been one of those days.

I literally looked at the computer screen this morning, after mentally cleansing myself of the leering Italian, cursed the supplier’s strikes that led to my Starbucks shortage and thought, Holy f*ck, is it REALLY Thursday?? I frantically consulted my desk calendar to be absolutely certain and even then I found it shocking. I’m four days into the bloody work week, still buried under piles of “must phone”s and ”really need to see”s and to add insult to seriously unsatisfied libido, the Replacement Spaniard* phoned last night to say he’s in London next weekend and I?

I’m at a project kickoff meeting.

In Liverpool.

A whole...((mentally calculates train route from London))...long way away.

Furthermore, THE Spaniard has also been in touch recently, begging forgiveness (again) and suggesting all manner of exotic short break, but I’m far too busy to even consider such a proposal, even if I hadn’t vowed never again to allow him access to the VIP section of The Barreness’s “Champagne Room”.

And last (and possibly worst) of all? The darling Spanish (or maybe Brazilian?) (But really, does it matter?) bartender on whom I’ve had half an eye these last six months or so has decided to go back to university and to give up the bar gig, as the hours were conflicting with his school work. And even though he did leave me his number scrawled rather charmingly on the back of a photo of he and I from a PR vent I hosted there in the autumn, I just can’t bring myself to ring it, as I’m absolutely certain I’ll prevent all manner of studying if unleashed on the poor lad.

I’m just not sure I can do that to his future.

So... f*ck me.

Or don’t as it were.

*sobs*

I'll pop round and say hello properly this weekend, kittens, and in the meantime? Get your shag on for me, will ya?

Ill make it up to you. Eventually.

*sobs again*



* The Replacement Spaniard really needs a new moniker. What do you think? His Hotness? Captain 'Big O'? Suggestion box is open, Naughty Ones. Go on...fill it.